


Battlecry

by CheerUpLovely



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Bratva AU, Bratva Oliver, F/M, Gen, H.I.V.E.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 22:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4367318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheerUpLovely/pseuds/CheerUpLovely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver Queen has been rising in the Bratva ranks since he was old enough to take oath, and as he attempts to follow in his father's footsteps and prove his worthiness, he uncovers a plot and an old enemy that is far out of his control. That doesn't stop him from trying to prove himself. She's a job. She's leverage. She also talks too much and is perfect for him, but Oliver out for blood and has no intention of falling in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battlecry

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at a Bratva AU. I've tried to throw in a few tricks to keep it fresh and different from anything else that you might read. I've read a lot of AUs where Oliver is the Pakhan already, and wanted to try something involving his journey into the role and how he reaches that status.

Chapter 1: Prologue

There was a distinct advantage to modern furnishing and expensive taste, and that was the ease of discretion.

Light footsteps padded along the hallway, but there were no creaking floorboards to give away her trespass, only a minimal brush of shoes against the thick plush of the carpet. There was only one spot on this hall that made any semblance of an echo, and she made sure to avoid that area. The stairs were another matter, which is why she planned to stay away from the main foyer entirely. It had been a grand entrance staircase in the prime of the house, but now it had been covered in countless carpets, ruined by over-achieving varnishing, and gave a now-modern home a Gothic feel where it wasn’t suited. She’d wondered if that was done deliberately, an act of intimidation against visitors. It wouldn’t have surprised her.

At the far end of the hall was a single door. There were other rooms along this hall, but there was an expanse of space that kept the other offices at least thirty feet away from the solitary office. She’d only been inside it twice; once when she’d first been introduced to the home-owner on the day she turned twenty-one, and once three weeks ago when she discovered the fate that awaited her in two weeks time. When she finally reached the door she stopped, steeling herself with a single breath before she closed her hand around the ornate doorknob. It clicked quietly, and she held that position to ensure no one was disturbed, and she pushed it open barely enough for her to glance inside. She wouldn’t go into the office again. Never.

The only sound that met her ears in the still darkness was a steady snoring. She bit back the sigh that threatened to betray her, relieved that he’d finally fallen into unconsciousness. Getting hold of the sedatives without being recognised by any of his associates was one feat, but slipping them undetected into his evening meal had been another. This was a man who was vigilant against threats for every waking moment, and hired men to continue that awareness when he rested. Of course, once he and the rest of his men woke up they would know what had been done, and they would come for her - she had no doubt of that - but her life was no longer the most important in play, and her fleeting experience in this way of life had taught her that she didn’t wish to pass on the family trait of becoming a bargaining chip.

She had no doubt that he would track her to the ends of the earth, but she only needed time to get protection for them. Or at least for her daughter.

For a moment she lingered, her palm crushed around the bronze etchings on the doorknob while she froze on the spot. She watched him, his dark silhouette against the open windows behind him. His head had fallen to the side, so she could make out the shape of his dark hair plastered to his forehead, a shadowed void created where his eyes were. There was a scratching of stubble peppering his usually flawless jawline, a sign that he had been working too hard the last three days. 

In another life, he would be a handsome man. Instead, this was the man who had ruined her. He’d taken the bright young woman she’d once been and pushed her so far beyond her limits that she no longer recognised herself. He’d taken her from her family, from her social circle, her job, her life… 

She now existed in a life where she could look upon her husband and feel grateful that he’d once demonstrated how to cut a man’s throat in front of her. She has no weapon, of course, but found it ironic that the first time she considers herself capable of taking a life that it would be the man who once wrapped her up in whispered promises that he would keep her safe from all evils.

With another breath, she closed the door behind her. Her movements back down the hall were less precautionary. Time was off the essence now. She needed to be long gone by the time he discovered her missing. She made her way back to the nursery her sleeping daughter waited in, with a single bag packed behind the crib. It had been hard it pack under such watchful eyes of the house staff, but she had managed over a process of weeks and her patience and discretion had paid off.

She didn’t linger over the sight of her baby daughter in the crib as she usually would. She’d considered herself too young to become a mother at twenty-two, falling pregnant shortly after her forced marriage, but at six months old, her daughter ruled her entire existence. She’d realised that she needed to leave the moment she held her baby girl, and had been plotting it ever since. Finding out her husband’s plans for the mother of his child had been another reason that had driven her rebellion. She gathered up her daughter, tugged a blanket around her to ward off the cold that waited for them, and made her way out of the house. 

The moment she stepped out onto the back patio, she was met with a knife at her throat and a gun at her temple.

\--

“I decided what I want for Christmas.”

Robert’s eyes flickered over his glasses as his attention was drawn away from a letter he’d received and towards his young son. Oliver was doing his best to appear decisive and firm on the matter, and it was very obvious from the way his foot was already half-stamped against the ground in advance that Robert knew this was more of a ‘this is what you are getting me’ conversation, not a ‘can I please have’ conversation.

It was also not a mood that Oliver would tolerate being ignored through. While young, his son had a very distinctive attitude forming. He ranged from charming to destructive in ten seconds when required - a trait that would serve him well when he was a man, and one inherited directly from his father. Moira insisted upon that face, despite Robert recognising that defiant turn of his young son’s chin as identical to his mother’s. God help them all if they ever had a daughter. Robert craved sons for many reasons, one of them being a daughter with this attitude would be more deadly than the entire Bratva ranking.

This small boy was heir to his entire standing in the Bratva. While for the moment, Robert was more than settled in his role of Pakhan, there would come a time when Oliver would take over that role, and it was his job to teach him what he would need to be strong in that position when the time came. There would be no time for such teachings once Oliver was Pakhan, because that would mean only one thing - that Robert himself was dead. So for now, Robert had started work early in his son’s life to encourage the most important part of being a leader - firm decision making - even if that decision was about a gift.

Turning away from his letter, Robert slipped it way into the top drawer of his desk, while Oliver curled his arms onto the desk edge, giving his father what he had announced last week was his ‘stern business look’. The boy was learning well. He saw his father in a position of power and knew that he wanted it for himself. “It is a little early for Christmas, isn’t it?” he asked.

“No,” Oliver said bluntly. “Tomorrow is December first. And I know what I want.”

“And what is that?”

“An IMI Mini-Uzi. Mr. Merlyn said it’s the best the Israeli’s have to offer,” he recited, copying Malcolm’s words directly. 

Robert laughed at his son’s stoic expression and the ease at which he spoke about such dangerous weaponry. “Only a mini one?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

“My arms are still too small for a big one, I think.” Oliver said, waving his hands then dropping them down to his side.

“That is a still a large firearm for a four-year-old.”

Oliver lowered his head a little, but only so that his gaze looked a little more threatening for his size as he looked up at his father. “I’m four and a half.”

“So you are,” Robert nodded, as a knock on the door interrupted him. He called out for them to enter, his back straightening when he saw his two advisors stood in the doorway. He looked back at his son as the entered. “Off to bed now, Oliver.”

“But-”

“Now,” he repeated, his voice firmer. Oliver hid his pout but left the room without any further argument. The door was closed behind him, plunging the room into a much darker vibe as his advisors approached his desk and took up the seats before it. 

Malcolm Merlyn, his oldest and most trusted friend. Robert had grow up alongside Malcolm within the Bratva family, and when he had risen to power after his father’s early passing to dementia he had chosen Malcolm as his Second. His choice of advisor had not just been based on friendship and loyalty, but out of power - Malcolm was a wise man, a ruthless killer where necessary. His transition to Captain at the young age of nineteen - a full year before Robert himself - had been his making, setting his place as one of the most successful assassins the Bratva had within their ranks. 

Quentin Lance was more of a logical choice. While less acquainted with murder, Lance was valuable as a bookkeeper for their faction. He was a good talker, quick-thinking and invaluable with money. He’d managed to buy off a sizeable amount of the local government to keep their deeds out of the media and safe from prosecution, and with more recent plans in mind, he’d soon have the entire country at the feet of the Bratva family.

“Speak,” he said as he straightened back into his chair. Whether it was an invitation or an order wasn’t questioned.

“We found Darhk.”

\----

“Please, don’t hurt my daughter. Please.”

The litany of prayers launched from her lips with a sudden regret that the league of dangerous men in the household had been drugged by her own hand. She knew the ways that her husbands men killed, and dual weaponry was an assassination of another group of men she’d been taught to fear. Had she not chosen tonight to leave, this man would have been dead before she’d even been aware of his presence. Now, she was alone, defenceless, and all she held was the most precious possession she had.

“This is the child of Damien Darhk.”

The voice was cold, empty, in the way that the Bratva assassins had been spoken about. One thing her husband had been good at was horror stories, telling her that she was safe with him by convincing her of the danger that would meet her in darker places. It had worked, at first. Perhaps if she had been raised in this world, tainted by the darkness that seemed to exist in the very walls of this house, it may have worked for longer. But she knew better.

“This is my child,” she said desperately. “She’s just a baby, she’s innocent….”

“This is the child of Damien Darhk,” the voice repeated, in none less threatening a tone. “You are Donna Darhk.”

The knife was drawn away from her throat, though the gun remained. She opened her eyes as the breath shook from her lips, no less terrified for her life. Just because he had removed one means of execution it didn’t mean she couldn’t be a corpse still in seconds. “Please don’t hurt my baby,” she repeated as her eyes filled with tears. “My husband is upstairs, I drugged him, he’s defenceless, they all are. If you want him, you can--”

“Donna Darhk and the child of Damien Darhk have been sentenced to death by order of the Pakhan.”

\--

Lance had objected - loudly - but he was the only one to do so. Malcolm’s plan for Darhk’s downfall needed no debate, but Robert had leaned back in his chair and watched his two advisors unfold the argument before him anyway. He employed his oldest friends in this position for this very reason. They were the angel and devil on his shoulder, though the angel in this case was easily as corrupted as the latter. One didn’t rise past Captain status without corruption in the very depths of their soul; Robert made sure of that.

“Stripping Darhk of his family will only give him more cause to move against us,” Lance reasoned. 

“Then we should do so now,” Malcolm argued, “before he has a son and our entire legacy is at risk.”

“You would kill a newborn girl, Merlyn?”

“With my bare hands, if it ensured the well-being of my child and family.”

“Enough,” Robert said quietly, holding up a hand to silence the pair of them. Each had their strengths as advisors but seeing eye-to-eye was not one of them. They fell into an unsettling stillness instantly as they waited for Robert’s decision. H.I.V.E. had been a shadow over their family for too long now, and as Malcolm had rightly suggested, this was a danger to their children. Darhk was not above child trafficking, abuse of the most precious creatures in existence. The idea that Darhk had a baby daughter was unthinkable. That girl would end up married to a H.I.V.E man while still underage and by then would bear the physical and emotional scars that would inevitably come from a life with Darhk as a father. With Darhk in a position of power, their own children were at risk. Lance’s daughters would be stolen from their beds. Malcolm’s son would join Robert’s when their tiny bodies were left gutted on the boundary of their territory. 

“We cannot get close enough to Darhk to take care of him,” he decided. “Our only option is to ensure that he knows we are serious about our threats. He is making a laughing stock of the Bratva, and I will not allow a H.I.V.E. man to lessen my authority.”

Lance stood from the chair, wiping a hand over his tired face. “Darhk’s kid is younger than all of ours-”

“Best now, before she grows into a life she should not live,” Robert decided. “It would be a kindness to her and her mother to free them from Darhk.”

“At least if Darhk retaliates on their deaths, he will be weak and distracted,” Malcolm prompted. “He could make himself open enough for us to take him down once and for all.”

“We are going against our morals,” Lance insisted. “Robert, a woman /and/ a child, when neither have committed treason against us?” 

“I have made my decision,” Robert said firmly, ending both their arguments. They fell still. “They both will die. Make it discreet, make sure a message is left, and prepare everyone for a retaliation,” he instructed, his eyes falling to Lance. “You have daughters, Quentin,” he reminded him. “Go tonight, see that this is done. You will do this as a reminder of the lengths we must go to to protect our children.”

\--

Her breath hitched as she tried to find the eyes of her captor behind the dark hood. She’d been taught that once before, in another life - find the eyes, keep contact, identify with your captor and hope they take pity on you. But the hoods of the Bratva were impenetrable from the outside gaze. This was how they killed; impersonal, cold, quickly, under oath. 

By escaping one death sentence to walk into another.

Her head bowed, pressing her cold lips to her sleeping daughter’s head. She hoped at least she would be killed first so she didn’t have to witness the death of her child. “I love you, baby girl,” she gushed, as tears flowed freely from her eyes and onto the dusting of blonde hair on the baby’s scalp. 

She felt the slice of the knife cutting through her skin, but not across her jugular where she expected it, instead across the side of her neck. The cut was far enough from her jugular that she knew this wouldn’t be the one that killed her, but it was painful nonetheless. Her cry of pain woke the baby in her arms, filling the darkened area with the echo of a disgruntled infant. 

“Shut her up!” snapped the man before her, his voice no longer cold before the hood. “We have to go, quickly, and we can’t be followed.”

Her eyes flickered up, and then she realised why she hadn’t had her throat cut. Blood was running freely from the wound, settling on the patio stones as a display, proof that she had been hurt, enough that she could have been killed. “You’re not going to--?”

“No, you have to die,” he said, his voice rushed as he started to usher her away into the darkness, pressing the baby’s blanket to stem the flow of blood and ensure that no one could follow a trail. They were on limited time. “Donna Darhk has to die, so does your daughter. You need to get far away from Russia.”

\--

Hours later, Quentin Lance returned to the office of Robert Queen, where the Pahkan and his remaining advisor still waited for him. He tossed a blood-soaked baby blanket onto the desk with a heavy expression. 

“It’s done.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know what you all think. To be honest, this is brand new for me and completely out of my comfort zone of mindless fluff!


End file.
